Stargazing
by I'm Nova
Summary: I suppose you know that Sherlock Holmes has no space for astronomy in his brain attic. This is how things changed. Gift fic for KnightFury - happy birthday, my dearest Holmes! Hope you like it!


_A. N. Happy Birthday, my dear Holmes! Errr…I mean KnightFury, of course. But you do share the birthday with our favourite sleuth, and that's not the only thing the two of you have in common. I do so hope that you will enjoy this little gift. I'm not sure it really fits with what you prompted me, but anyway, that's what this turned out to be._

Stargazing

It all starts with uncle Alastair – Watson's uncle, in case you were wondering. He was in the Royal Navy, and one young John Hamish Watson had flirted with the idea to follow in his footsteps. At least until he'd discovered that he suffered from seasickness. A violent one. Uncle Alastair had taught him about the stars. He was adamant that no relative of his would ever be lost simply because he couldn't follow the north star. Uncle had even an unrecognised knack for storytelling (it's probably from him that John gets his talent, actually) and he wove the most delightful tales out of the myths associated to every constellation.

When, many years later, back in London after a war that's left him feeling more broken than he'd like to admit, Watson – now doctor Watson – meets, by mere serendipity, an extraordinary man that will become his flatmate, colleague, companion and best friend (though he doesn't know that still) he can't help himself. He makes a study of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, trying to figure the man out. It is, after all, a fascinating subject. The good doctor is equal part disappointed, shocked and baffled by his flatmate's wilful ignorance of astronomy – down right to the Copernican theory, which, if you ask him, is not something a gentleman of the Nineteenth century can ignore without shame.

It is immediately clear, though, that educating him on the matter is a lost cause. Watson would be more than willing to share the wonderful stories uncle Alastair told him in summer nights long ago, but the sleuth (as Holmes has finally been deemed) snaps that he would be forced to do his best to forget it all over again, not to clutter his mind with useless baggage, and the doctor gives up.

Even he cannot start to imagine how knowing which stars are brighter, or closer to the Earth, or which tales lay behind them, could ever help in a criminal investigation. After all, astrology is all poppycock – his scientific mind knows it all too well – and there is no other way that the heavenly bodies can influence felons' behaviour, or be dragged into the all-too-earthly matters his friend investigates.

Until a few years later, that is. It is the midst of December 1887 when they are contacted by a terrified old woman – she reminds Watson a bit of their Mrs. Hudson – that has vainly waited for the announced visit of her eldest child with his family. Alarmed telegrams and a quick research have proved that the Blakes – that's their name – have indeed left their home and are not in any of the hospitals in the way from Edinburgh (where they moved ) and the tiny village where the matriarch still lives.

At her wits' end, faced by the wordless disappearances of her loved ones, Mrs. Blake came to London. Apparently, she's one of Watson's readers, and believes no smarter detective has graced Great Britain in this century. Holmes accepts her case, reassuring her that no payment will be needed when the old woman nervously breeches the subject.

It is obvious even to Watson that she can not offer much money, though she would be ready to invest all her savings to have her family back. But, in the sleuth's own words, this promises to be an interesting case, and it will allow his mind to keep busy, and he couldn't possibly ask for more than doctor is rather proud of his friend's goodwill. The readers have got this odd idea of a cold automaton of a man (his descriptions might be responsible for that…partially), but the truth is that Holmes' qualities are not only confined to his amazing mind.

Which is why they take the first train to Scotland, as the obvious action is to investigate on the place. It is very odd such a disapparition, because the Blakes family were not rich, which makes it unlikely for whoever is behind this to have simply kidnapped them for ransom – and, consequently, does not bode well for their safety. There is, indeed, not one minute to lose. It would be worrying enough for one man not to be accountable for, but a whole family – it is the first time Watson is faced with such an event, and while concerned, he admits that he is curious about the reason behind this as well.

Once arrived, they try to track the Blakes' movements, to determine exactly at which point of their trip towards the matriarch's house they have been…mislaid. There's still no evidence that says they have been kidnapped rather than deciding for a different destination halfway through. If they had, though, a simple telegram would have sufficed to spare much anguish to the old woman. Still, sometimes people can be so cruelly forgetful – and Holmes has taught the doctor not to theorize before knowing all the pertinent facts.

The consulting detective makes a quick survey of the Blakes' house, which involves a bit of breaking and entering (the old Mrs. Blake forgot to give them the keys to his son's home, if she even had them), looking for clues, but it is soon evident that he won't find much here. As far as the rooms of the simple habitation say, their dwellers really had no other plans than seeing the family for the holidays. There's no threat message to be discovered, or guilty secret to unearth.

Next stop is the station – with a family portrait of the Blakes that Holmes has taken from their home, so as to make his work easier. The old ticket clerk remembers having sold them tickets to their destination – mostly because the wife had been complaining loudly about travelling so late (they'd taken a train who left in the late afternoon and it would be well past dinnertime when they arrived to their stop). But they never reached there. The village was small and if they'd been noticed at the station someone would have certainly told the troubled Blake matriarch.

Well, people don't just evaporate. They must have left the train at an earlier stop, though God knows why (well, Holmes might have a hypothesis, but as it is his wont mid-case, he doesn't share). Which of course means following the railway to discover where the Blakes actually left the train. They probably did so under their own power, because a number of people (more than one would be needed to successfully subdue the whole family) bodily dragging someone down from a public train, nevermind a whole family, with or without the use of weapons, would have caused a commotion. Police would have become immediately involved, frustrating the criminals' intent. No, this was a con – or it started like one. Even Watson can glean as much, though he can imagine of no sensible reason for waylaying a common British family on its way to Christmas celebrations.

About midway, in one minor station (that works well for them – more probable that some stranger will be noticed), they find evidence that the Blakes left the train, in the company of someone who's rather infamous, and looking plenty worried. The man who was with them is Dr. Plenty – which, despite being the only doctor in such a little village (well, in a house quite isolated from the actual hamlet) does not work – the locals know better than ask him for a consultation, and seem afraid of him for some reason. They are probably right to do so. The man lives with his brother, who has some sort of work in a nearby town, without even any servants.

The detective and his Boswell manage to rent a couple of horses and receive not-too-clear indications as to where the doctor's house is situated. An interview is clearly needed. In the meantime, not only night has fallen. It has started to snow heavily, too – before they know it, there's no seeing the road anymore, much more following it.

"I suppose we have to go back," Holmes says, but he's frowning. It doesn't sit well with him.

"We don't," Watson objects, with a grin. "They said doctor Plenty's house was about three miles to the southaest, right? We can find southaest easily."

"How?" the sleuth queries, sounding unconvinced. This is not London, where he'd know every cobblestone of every road.

"Here is Orion, the great hunter," the doctor says, pointing at a seemingly random point where a few stars shine. "And that's his belt. You follow it, and…yep. Sirius, in Canis Major. Brightest star in the sky, you can't exactly miss it. That's shining in the southaest, I promise. Well, it would be southwest if it was setting, but since it night has not long fallen it's still in the southaest – and it'll stay there long enough for us to reach our destination."

They're following a bloody star, and it's around Christmas, and Holmes would scoff at the ridiculousness of it if lives didn't possibly hang in the balance. But for once, it's his friend that is leading them – and they actually arrive at the infamous brothers' house without the horses breaking a leg, which counts as a success.

They break in, thanks to Holmes' talents (the man would really make a fearsome criminal) and what they discover is enough to almost turn the doctor's stomach. The Blakes have been kidnapped – to be doctor Plenty's experiment subjects. Judging from the criminal's ramblings, the fact that they were related to each other was essential in the research he was conducting, for reason they won't let him expound on.

Thankfully, only Mr. Blake has been hurt as of yet, and not too grievously – the others are terrified and starving, but not hurt or ill. The possibly worst thing, though, is the mad scientist's brother, who looks like a regular bloke…and yet seems to find no fault in his brother's activities, protesting loudly against their intrusion as if right was on his side. The resulting scuffle is violent, but brief – the criminals not at all properly trained in the art of fighting someone who knows how to fight back, which is almost disappointing.

Afterwards Watson can get to the more important matter of patching up Mr. Blake, despite the considerable and not entirely unreasonable diffidence of the man towards anyone holding a medical degree. In the end, they send the Blakes back to the village – the husband on one horse, his wife and young child on the other – the morning after, with prayer to send there a policeman after having made their statement about what they suffered. Holmes and Watson will stay and ensure the Plentys do not flee. After that, they should be able to take a train again and arrive in time for Christmas luncheon with Mr. Blake's mother.

It could be just a case like any other, but once they're back home – a day later, at that –, Holmes says, apparently a propos of nothing, "I was wrong."

"What? No, you solved the case," his friend replies, baffled. Of course, the detective might be referring to a conversation they had months ago – he sometimes does that – but in that case his flatmate doesn't even want to try to guess his mental processes.

"Of course I did. No, I was wrong about discounting astronomy as a useful subject. But I frankly never thought I would have to navigate using the stars in this day and age," the sleuth admits, with a tiny shrug. And then, with a humility he rarely shows, he queries, "Would you teach me, Watson? Please?"

"Certainly, my dear. If you wish so – I would be glad to share this with you," the doctor replies warmly. It's a honour. Not everyone can claim to have taught something to Sherlock Holmes – especially after his school career ended. "I'm warning you, though. This will take at least a year."

"I think you are overestimating the difficulty of the subject – or underestimating your teaching ability. Or maybe both. I'd give it a month, tops," the consulting detective declares confidently. He's learned languages in less than that, after all.

Watson chuckles lightly. "Neither, I assure you. It's just that – not all the stars are visible all the time. The sky changes throughout the year. For example, I'll have to wait until spring to show you the Lyra constellation. And if I can't point out the stars to you, how am I expected to teach you? It doesn't matter how bright you are, my dear," he explains good-naturedly.

"Oh," is Holmes' only reply. Watson is not laughing at him, not exactly, but he can't help the ashamed blush that colours his cheeks. He should have known better – but if he had known, it'd mean he'd have made space for such matters in his brain attic and wouldn't need his friend's guidance in the first place.

Which means that, a few nights later (they had a terrible weather for a few days that made it impossible to see any stars) they are out on the roof, covered in their more heavy coats and with a few rugs too, for their first astronomy lesson. "I suppose we should start with Polaris. It is our lodestar, that will not rise or set, and will unfailingly point you to the North Pole," Watson says.

He should have known that Holmes would not be a docile pupil. "I'd like better if we started from the stars you used to navigate us in the last case. Since it is fresh in my mind…well. I suppose we can get to Polaris later tonight," the sleuth objects.

"Fine. So then, I wanted Sirius – and it being the most bright star of the sky, it really shouldn't have been hard. But since I wanted to make sure I didn't mislead you, I checked first with the constellation of Orion. There," the doctor explains, indicating what seemed like a bunch of random stars. "These are Orion's stars, and these are his legs – and clear in the midst, you have the three stars of his belt."

"That makes no sense. What you pointed out might be a vaguely hourglass-shaped cluster, but it looks in no way like a human," the detective grumbles.

"I know, I know. But you have to use a bit of fantasy there. Maybe knowing Orion might help you to visualize him? He was a giant, son of Poseidon, god of sea, and a mighty hunter…" his friend recounts softly.

"God no, Watson. Not another of your florid tales. A hourglass is a hourglass," the consulting detective cuts him in. "Do you want to rename it The Hourglass, then? Since you want to use the stars to navigate, not pretend to be an astronomer, it doesn't really matter to you – or me. Or, I know! Maybe your problem is with the myths. If I call it Moran, can you imagine him stalking up there?" Watson proposes, with a lopsided smile.

"Moran?" The consulting detective doesn't yelp, of course not – but he actually gets quite close to that.

"Mighty hunter – he seemed to fit the bill," the doctor replies, shrugging. "Anyway, there he is – Betelgeuse and Bellatrix as right and left shoulder, Rigel and Saiph as the feet."

"If you insist – I guess with a _considerable_ effort of imagination one could agree with your statement. But I really have to wonder what the ancients that created constellations had in mind," Holmes huffs.

"Myths," Watson replies immediately, grinning.

The detective groans. "Anyway, Orion – or Moran, if you prefer – 's belt is practical because it lets you find some other interesting stars. You follow it to the southaest, and you get Sirius, the one I followed the other day. As I said, brightest star in the sky, so easy to spot. It is in the constellation of Canis Maior, with these other," the doctor explains, pointing out more stars.

"That actually looks like a dog's profile – well, a child drawing stick figures' interpretation of one, at least – if you squint and tilt your head," Holmes agrees. "It is rather sad that the poor dog has no name, though. How about Toby?"

"If you want," his friend agrees, clearly pleased that his pupil is enjoying himself. "Both dogs – Canis Maior and Canis Minor, the bigger and the smaller – are supposed to be Orion's dogs, but I'm certainly not scouring Moran's autobiography for his dogs' names. Besides, I think Toby deserves it."

"So now back to what you wanted to start with. The lodestar," the detective says, with a grimace at the idea of Moran's hunting prowess.

"There," Watson explains, pointing out a few stars in a quadrangular shape and a few in a not exactly straight line from one of its angles, "this is the Little Bear – or Little Dipper, if you prefer – and that last star is Polaris. Which, as the name says, can be counted on to indicate the North Pole. It does not rise and set like other stars, so you can always see it. It's really very useful."

"You didn't rename that," the sleuth remarks. It's a silly game, but one he's enjoying. "If that's the Little Dipper, I suppose it makes it Wiggins."

"Ah, no," his teacher objects, shaking his head, "and I'm not disagreeing because you know perfectly well that dipper is meant as a ladle and not as a pickpocket, Holmes. But Wiggins is definitely the Big Dipper – he's the oldest of the Irregulars, after all."

"Then I presume that the Little Dipper is meant to be the youngest of them – Alex," the consulting detective corrects himself. "You might have a point." Despite the many rugs he's covered in, he shivers visibly.

"Yes, fine, I'd say we have had enough of a lesson for tonight," Watson declares firmly.

"But..." his pupil protests – eager as in anything he undertakes. The night is still young, certainly.

"We will be at this all year long anyway, Holmes. There's no need to go through all the wintery constellations tonight and make yourself ill in the process," the doctor points out, hoping logic will appeal to his friend. "Besides, I'm quite cold, too."

That seems to decide things for the detective, and they both leave the roof for the comfort of the sitting room. None of them is quite willing to retire to bed despite the late hour, so the sleuth revives the almost-dead fire in the hearth while his friend pours them a measure of liquor. It might be counterproductive on the long run, but on the long run they'll be (hopefully) asleep under a number of quilts, while for now it'll help warming them.

"So? How did you like your first taste of astronomy?" Watson queries, while handing his friend a glass. They ensconce themselves in their respective armchairs, close to the now blazing fire.

"You certainly have a…peculiar approach to the subject. I thought your lack of scientific method would annoy me, but I find myself enjoying it instead," Holmes replies, mirth in his eyes.

"Well, you want the navigating bit of stars only – I thought you wouldn't appreciate if I started talking about light years and other assorted trivia. I'm sparing you attic space, as it were," his friend remarks, shrugging.

"How considerate of you," the detective replies – and he's not being sarcastic. "I have to thank you for your lesson, though I think I will appreciate them more in a warmer season."

"You're welcome, obviously, my dear. And I agree with you – I can't wait to show you the constellation of Cygnus. It's visible in the summer, you see," is the doctor's reply. He yawns after that.

"Maybe you should retire, Watson. I've kept you up long enough for my class," the sleuth says, a tiny bit apologetic.

"I can stay a bit longer if you wish for company," his friend offers. It wouldn't hurt Holmes to retire and get a bit of sleep, either, but he's rather the insomniac when he isn't completely worn out. "And I really enjoyed tonight, so it's not like you took advantage of me."

"No need, really. I'll probably spend a while in my mind palace properly reorganising the new knowledge while it's fresh," Holmes counters. "And obviously I enjoyed tonight too," he adds with a smile.

"Remember to not let the fire go out," the doctor recommends, getting up. Yes, he knows that Holmes can get quite lost in his own head while tidying up the mind palace. But he's caught enough of a chill before, and he really doesn't need any more.

The sleuth rolls his eyes. "Yes, don't worry. I will take care of myself. I'm perfectly able to, you know," he replies. Really, he's not a child.

"I know. But reminding you doesn't hurt. Good night, my dear fellow. I'll see you tomorrow," Watson says, with a warm smile.

"Sleep well, my dear," the detective counters. That will definitely happen. After all, if his friend's usually noisy nightmares should disturb him, Brahms, however plain, works wonders.


End file.
